


keysmithing

by iimpavid, voidteatime



Series: Peter Nureyev's Alias Catalog [7]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Case Fic, Dreams and Nightmares, Extended Metaphors, F/F, Gen, Indentured Servitude, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Objectification, Other, Peter Nureyev's Alias Catalog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:27:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21517690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iimpavid/pseuds/iimpavid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidteatime/pseuds/voidteatime
Summary: Peter doesn't make a habit of regretting. But if he did, he would regret his choice to be a debtor. Especially like this: a debtor in servitude.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Original Character(s)
Series: Peter Nureyev's Alias Catalog [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1716670
Comments: 12
Kudos: 15





	keysmithing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [how i learned to stop worrying and love the beast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21428350) by [iimpavid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iimpavid/pseuds/iimpavid), [voidteatime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidteatime/pseuds/voidteatime). 



> Oh, did you think we were done? Think again.
> 
> Technically, this series starts [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21428350) but mind the warnings; you can skip the "Bites and Pieces" continuity and not miss much. TL;DR: Peter Nureyev has some real intense nightmares as a function of his messy psychological landscape. Keysmithing gets into the plot that surreal fever dream of a myth alludes to and it is, on the whole, significantly easier to digest.

From outside the belly of the beast there is thunder. Peter's feet touch cold. He jerks away from it in the confines of the oppressive heat, claws for purchase in the-- blankets. Flailing and gasping he shoves himself from his bunk to the floor.

"Ransom! Family meeting! Get up or I'm gonna get Jet!" The knocking at his door, a police officer's knock loud enough to wake the dead, continues. Juno's been out there a while.

Foal-shaky Peter pushes himself to his feet. Presses the door release and for half a second Juno tries to knock on empty air. 

"Finally." He started to walk away then did a double-take. Peter was pale and leaning heavy on the doorframe, the silk camisole he slept in clung to his chest with sweat. Juno frowned. "You okay?" 

Peter hesitated around the lie but pushed it out from between his teeth anyway, "A stomach bug, I think." 

"If you say so. Get dressed; we gotta roll out the welcome wagon for the new sibling." And at the uncomprehending blankness on his face, Juno prompts, "The new crew member? They're a Plutonian expat? I've known 'em for years? We went back to Mars to pick them up 'cause Buddy needs a good social hack? Were you paying attention at all when we went over this?"

"Of course I was I'm just a little out of sorts," he says, and gives Juno a reassuring smile that is only uncomfortable. "I'll be right out." 

It's less a family meeting and more a potluck. The galley countertops are lined with snacks, not all of which were Rita's choice. A jukebox plays a cheerful tune in the corner. 

The new member of the Carte Blanche is talking to Jet. They are dressed for the occasion, he has to admit. Floor-length black-- not a dress but a short-sleeved robe cut from fabric that flows like ink in water. Belted over practical, armored leggings and boots. Their faded pink hair is pulled back from their face under a pair of rectangular goggles. Their tempered glass is utilitarian. The sort used for welding in reactor cores. 

Their back is to Peter and he wants to keep it that way. He wants to lie back down because he made the mistake of putting on his favorite shoes instead of sensible work boots and the ankle he sprained on their last job is burning in its sleek brace, protesting the distribution of weight to the balls of his feet. 

But he is a professional and so he files away the watery joints of his nightmare for future consideration. He smiles beatifically at Jet. Jet doesn't smile back but there's no line of consternation in the middle of his forehead, either, so Peter assumes (hopes with clawing desperation) he hasn't done anything to offend him since entering the room.

"Peter, this is Hieron," Jet says.

Hieron turns to him. They are lithe-limbed and red-eyed, fanged and smiling. 

Peter's knees go weak and his ears ring. But because he told Juno he was fine, because he is a professional who doesn’t at all feel faint, because when he applies himself he can be charming, he says, " _Hieron_? I think I've had dreams about you."

"You dreamt of me, did you? I haven't done that in a while." 

"You haven't... _done that_?"

They chuckle low in their chest. "I'm from Pluto, haven't you heard? We're all descended of mindeaters!" 

Peter laughs along because it makes perfect sense. A joke to play on foreigners who have bought into the fallacy of Plutonian exoticism. He’s done the same, helping strangers to get lewd Brahmese tattoos, telling them the characters meant “love” or “hope”. 

Hieron watches him without blinking and purrs, "And what is your name, _thief_?"

His heart skips a beat and he's convinced everyone in the room hears it. "Peter," he gives them because it's mostly-true and his hands are still shaky with the feeling of skin being peeled from his palms.

“Peter,” they purr and give him a wink. “How lovely to meet you.”

For a moment he swears a third eye ripples beneath their skin.

* * *

The introductory potluck segues gracefully to the brass tacks: a family meeting. 

They've added another chair to the table to accommodate Hieron which leaves the whole of the Carte Blanche’s crew sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the middle of the galley. The kitchen table-- an incongruous wooden monstrosity with a leaf that's been repurposed into a coffee table in the common room-- is round but Buddy still manages to position herself at its head. "Hieron is a particular kind of information specialist. A social hacker, you might say.” She turns to them, “I take it Juno has gotten you up to speed, darling?"

"You need a Key to open a Book," they reply, meeting her eye with a marked confidence.

"Very good. The Book, of course, is not an actual book, but a database that contains confidential and critical data on every indentured servant sponsored through The Board of Fresh Starts. Our master hacker can get us to the Book and crack it open” she said and Rita preened, “but the information inside cannot be read without a decryption Key. Said Key is not stored on any computer or drive, but only in the mind of the Board of Fresh Start's senior-most data specialist, Victor Terzian. And that is where you come in, Hieron. Juno has already informed me of your...unique skillset but I will cede the floor to you for a proper introduction." 

Hieron stands on cue and offers the crew a little wave, chuckling nervously. "Hello, I'm Hieron. I'm 41 years old, my star sign is Sagittarius, I'm always down to clown, and I am...." Their red eyes wander and settles on Juno. Steeling themself, they finish, "...a Plutonian mindeater. And no- I'm not crazy."

Vespa glares at them, thumbing the blade of her knife to test its edge. “If you’re pulling our chain…”

“If they were lying they would pick something more believable,” Jet says, chronically unruffled.

"Ooh! What number am I thinkin’ of?!" Rita pipes up, raising her hand for Hieron's attention and bouncing a little. 

"It's not a party trick. And you're not thinking of a number, you're thinking of the color purple and how handsome I am and now you're thinking of the number 5 in hopes that you will recover and also no it's not like the movie at all." 

Peter refrains from rolling his eyes, just barely. Hieron looks bored by the question, they hardly looked at Rita to give their answer. Peter combed back over their conversation trying to find where Hieron had primed her to think of purple then five. It wasn't the word association he'd have chosen; he preferred things that rhymed. He had run a similar con, years ago, and been much more melodramatic about it. It'd been a useful trick to distract the Uranian Viscount from her purse long enough to get an impression of her house key-- and from there a pink sapphire the size of his fist. It had sold for millions.

It had never occurred to him to try it on a den of thieves. _That_ took gall.

Rita, for her part, is guileless as ever and goes wide-eyed as Hieron recounts her frantic thoughts back at her and she slowly puts her hand down. "That's....incredible...." she mews, humbled. 

Hieron sits back down, folding their arms. "And-- ah-- for future reference, please don't flip thoughts at me like that. This isn't space-Benihana." 

Juno snorts.

* * *

The knock on Peter's door a few hours later is polite enough, unaccompanied by shouting, only Buddy calling through the door instead. "Peter? Do you have a moment, darling? I need your professional opinion on something." 

He can't get the door open fast enough, abandoning his jewelers’ tools on his desk and almost upending his chair. "Come in, please. I was hoping you would stop by. You see, I'm very ... _concerned_ about our newest addition. I think the subtlety required to be an audience plant is a bit beyond Rita but clearly Juno already has a significant amount of personal history with Mx. Hieron--" 

He stops because he realizes Buddy is examining her nails instead of looking at him. Leaning against the desk where he'd been working at dismantling Nova Zolatovna's collection of bodice jewelry piece by piece to be sold off to different ports. She is, clearly, waiting for him to finish.

"You've already considered all of this already, of course," he finishes, lamely.

"No, not at all." He brightens for a moment but Buddy pushes onward, "I don't know or care whether Hieron is the genuine alien article if they can get the job done. No, I need your opinion on the acting chops of our crew. It's been several years since I've done any proper casting and I have a particularly challenging role in mind for what comes next. There’s no one else whose experience warrants such a consultation." She stops there and watches him again like she's waiting for him to catch up.

"The 20th Interplanetary Cure Collective can't be that hard to infiltrate," he says after a beat, coolly, like he hadn't been frantically upending files in his mind to find the briefing from earlier in the evening. "You have a _mindreader_." 

"Jealousy isn't attractive, darling, it ages you terribly." 

He makes an affronted noise and starts to speak but Buddy ignores him. "My problem is, Peter, _darling_ , that you are a skilled actor but I simply don't know if you have the range required for this role. It would require you to work alongside Hieron and you hardly seem to be willing to look at them."

“Try me.” 

“If you insist,” she says. “The character in question is Orpheus Villanova…” 

What comes next, Peter knows, is given to him entirely because Buddy has had him pegged from the first moment she set eyes on him… and he falls for it anyway. 

Orpheus Villanova is a debtor. Not just any debtor but one sponsored by _Eurydice_ Villanova, an heiress who has recently made quite a few waves with sizable donations to refugee rehabilitation programs in the Outer Rim. Her preferred pet project is a Promethium mining colony on Veda, a Brahmese outpost blown to shreds in the most-recent wave of civil war. Orpheus's sponsorship included the education in finance and hospitality necessary to be an indispensable personal assistant to the sponsor lucky enough to win Invictus' annual auction (all in the name of charity, of course). 

"Hieron will be Eurydice, of course, they've already got their wardrobe picked out and they’re best suited for the type of information gathering we need. But Orpheus..." Buddy muses, “Juno doesn't have the right temperament for him. Jet is... _conspicuous_. Vespa is completely out of the question..." 

" _Buddy_."

" _Peter_ . You can’t blame me for being cautious; you don't have much incentive to build rapport with them." Her unspoken _or anyone else_ hangs in the air. “This is the sort of role that could bleed. I don’t want any resentments brewing in the family.”

"This is the perfect opportunity to develop rapport and, I assure you, I learned to avoid character bleed long ago... Hieron's," he hesitates; even novice doesn't seem to cover the gap between Kanagawa’s Pet Artist and thief, " _new_ to crime. I don't doubt they will do their best but a little professional guidance can’t do anything but help." 

Buddy smiles. Peter realizes he's lost.

"You’ll leave first thing in the morning, then. We'll have to get you fitted for your debtor's tag," she tells him. "It won't be real, of course, no more functional than jewelry, but you won’t be able to take it off.”

* * *

The matte black bracer fitted to Peter's right arm has a simple vitals display with adjustable brightness-- adjustable by _Eurydice's_ comms-- and careful engraving to suggest the inner workings of a blood filter that have been meticulously flattened, gilt in hair-fine silver, and streamlined for minimal intrusion. If it were real, it would have cost a fortune. Which is something like the point since Eurydice is meant to be filthy rich.

Peter doesn't make a habit of regretting. But if he did, he would regret his choice to be a debtor. Especially like this: a debtor in servitude. 

Anonymity is his finest armor but the complete lack of regard as the customs officer speaks about him and asks Hieron whether their debtor is being used to transport anything that should be reported-- he grinds his teeth. Plasters a placid expression across his face. He remembers who he’s supposed to be and keeps that thought at the forefront as he allows himself to be taken away to be searched.

Eurydice Villanova pouts her matte black lips after Orpheus is whisked away, but shifts to smile, all blithe charm, at the guard at the door as she is also searched before entering the conference hall. 

A banner proclaiming that this is the _20th Interplanetary Cure Collective_ stretches across the open hall. Tables line its length around which pharmaceutical reps and medical speculators gather alongside questionable humanitarians. Mingling and trading innovations and growing their parasitic networks. To Hieron’s chagrin, there were no name tags to be seen, only gold pins that identified the debtors that slipped between tables or stood beside their owners awaiting orders. Orpheus is outfitted with his own pin indicating his status, or lack thereof, by the time Eurydice arrives at the other end of security to collect him. 

When the faintly luminescent gold pin is heat-stitched into the mandarin collar of his close-fitted, elegant, thousand-cred jacket he considers ripping it off and throwing it back at the security staff who had so graciously fitted him with it. Instead, he limited himself to the mild complaint of, “What a shame; it’ll clash with Madame’s jewelry.” He reminds himself that later, in the very near future, he’ll get to take the jacket (and the pin) off for good. 

"Oh, Orpheus dear, I hope those brutes weren't too rough on you," Eurydice fusses for the benefit of onlookers, no doubt eyeing the handsome, sleek debtor and his so-gracious mistress. 

“Hardly, Madame. You could almost call them polite; the poor things are so overworked.” 

The careful implication is that he, being above wage labor, is not. It’s the right thing to say among these people and his expression is mild as Eurydice plucks at his seams looking just the right level of concerned for her lovingly-acquired status symbol. 

Then, once the attention had passed, Hieron tells him, "No name tags or placards on the tables....But I suppose it was never going to be that easy."

“The Collective is surprisingly insular. That we’re even here as practical strangers speaks volumes to...” he agrees in an undertone. Then, in a line taken directly from an Invictus pamphlet for the pilot program launched twenty years ago for their infamously discreet filters, “... _the Collective’s desire to branch out and build bridges across communities in these trying times_. But I have no doubt that your prodigious memory can see us through any hardships where all these new faces are concerned... and you have me.” He says this with enough staid pride to be believable as a debtor convinced that his price tag equaled his value. Without fear of laying it on too thick, “I would never leave you adrift, Madame.”

Wiped clean of their nervous energy, "Of course you wouldn't, dear Orpheus. Let's mingle, shall we? You're my best accessory, like a good statement necklace. A perfect conversation piece."

Hieron grinned. Their eyes glinted behind Eurydice’s green contacts. The Collective's programming started in earnest tomorrow, but tonight was a mixer where business and personal hobbies could be discussed freely, and social networks could be altered and expanded over the course of a few drinks. They knew these hunting grounds well. They purred, "Watch me work these chumps."

The eyes of other debtors, those who are as desperate to keep their position as Orpheus should be, are on him, so he doesn't roll his. The last thing he needs is to be unfamiliar and the topic of gossip for disrespecting his mistress and, debtors' social hierarchy aside, jewelry doesn't have opinions on its wearer's turns of phrase.

Eurydice stalked through the crowd with predatory grace. Holding court with a few people at a time before slipping away, having divined by some measure that Peter couldn’t yet suss out that their mark was not among them. Orpheus trails at her elbow, head held high, eyes attending politely to her mingling while his mind wanders over their purpose again and again. 

Victor Terzian was remarkable for a few things: first, his illustrious position within the Board of Fresh Starts; second, his general reclusive genius; third, his own prodigious memory. According to rumors, he could summon up the details of any debtor in their program at will without any computing enhancement to his hippocampus. (In a very small, dark place, Peter thinks that he does not envy the Board’s debtors at all.) Terzian was the natural holder of The Key and, no matter how Peter turned over the situation before them, there was no way to get to it except through him.

Names weren’t hard to come by in the crowd. Traded back and forth freely with smiles and contacts. But none were the one they were looking for. Eurydice's long golden nails tapped impatiently on the glass of the champagne flute she had snagged from the open bar as she surveyed the crowd for a moment then, sensing something, headed back in. 

Dutiful as ever, Orpheus followed. And Peter wondered how, if they found Terzian at all, Hieron was going to manage to win his trust in the course of one conference. It could be done, Peter had managed similar in the past, but the stars would have to align.

A hand that is not Eurydice's on his arm-- on his tag-- snaps his attention back to the present. 

The man touching him, pulling up his sleeve, gasps. "It's so _thin_ ! And here I thought you both were just pretending at it-- you know how _some people_ are with their roleplay--"

Orpheus' placid smile widens a fraction to bare his teeth. "Madame Villanova has exquisite taste."

Eurydice preens. "I simply couldn't have such an eyesore as a company-issued tag ruin my servant's beauty, hm? Isn't he just...the loveliest?" She affectionately brushes her fingers across his cheeks, gripping his chin a bit to turn his head as if he were a prize show dog. "Not a blemish!" 

Peter lets her press her claws ever-so-gently into his cheeks to show him off, lowering his eyes in a sort of servile bashfulness that he will later tell himself-- so often that he eventually believes it-- is rooted _entirely_ in Orpheus' character.

The man, satisfied with the display, continues, "You must tell me who your biomachinist is, Eurydice; tags are usually so ugly."

The mindeater chews a bit at the man's question, receives an answer: _It's definitely a Violeta Killkenny piece._

They smile brightly, as if caught. "Oh, a Killkenny original of course. She makes such stunning custom pieces."

"Of course! I thought I recognized that craftsmanship." The man seems impressed and offers his hand politely to Eurydice, who shakes it delicately. "I am Monsieur Gabrielle." In the safety of his own mind he thinks, _Gabrielle, yes, that will suffice_. 

"And what do you do, _Gabrielle_?"

More small talk wove between them, leaving Orpheus to jot down names and introductory details in fine, dripping bastardization of Brahmese script that runs backward down the matte of his tablet screen. He doesn't scribble in the margins where he might be seen as anything less than attentive even if his code draws curious eyes. He suffers them, deferring always to Eurydice's social graces. There is the warmth of eyes on the back of his neck but it doesn't perturb him; he thinks this is the feeling of settling _at last_ into Orpheus' skin.

After a few minutes of polite chatter and reaping nothing further from their chosen victim Eurydice gave a wistful sigh. “Monsieur, please, forgive me, but I must step away-- to powder my nose, I’m sure you understand.”

Gabrielle laughed and gave her a salacious wink as she and her debtor walked away.

The restroom is all marble countertops and gold fixtures with a parlor of plush Orrish rugs, mirrored walls, velvet couches. They're alone, for the moment. 

"Gabrielle’s using a fake name too..." Hieron mutters, fidgeting again with the collar of their dress. "I'm going to have to chew on him further to make sure he's the actual mark and not just some weirdo. I hate these fucking people.”

Orpheus raises an eyebrow at Eurydice's turn of phrase. "Not _nearly_ as much as I do," he murmurs, checking the integrity of his eyeliner and finding it holding up its end of the bargain well. On the surface, he’s pleased. 

They continue, almost as if they didn’t catch his words, “I'm sorry I'm using you as a lure. I can tell it bothers you."

"Madame, as I recall, you became my generous _sponsor--_ " He says the word with obvious contempt because here in the velvet quiet of the empty bathroom there are no cameras and the only possible ears to hear him slip are, by the loosest definition, friendly to him. "-- because of my ... _aesthetic merits_. Everything else I can do for you is simply icing on the cake. You have nothing to apologize for."

They push a little at that crack in Peter's veneer but find it leads only to the set dressing of Orpheus, consideration of the conference schedule, travel logistics, their current budget all littered across the surface of his mind. His ability to stay in character, to truly inhabit his role is...exhilarating. So many minds in one and yet hardly one at all and below the stage there is _so much more_ . Hieron can almost smell it. It's _appetizing_. Succulent. They want to catch their fingers beneath that trapdoor they’ve found and fling it open and--

They spot their blushing cheeks in the bathroom mirror and look over at Peter's reflection to make sure he didn't see them making a fool of themself.

He catches their glance as he's leaning in to examine his lipstick (having spotted a potential smudge in the unbroken blood-black of his upper lip that can't be allowed to persist) and asks, "Something troubling you, Madame?" 

"Nothing, I thought I spotted a gray hair," Eurydice dismisses. She closes her eyes for a moment, resting her hands on the edge of the cold marble vanity and taking a few deep, steadying breaths. The heavy, warm thing that had settled at the back of the audience to the production of _Orpheus_ slipped away for intermission. "Okay, let's catch up with Monsieur Gabrielle, hm? I'm sure he'd _love_ the company."

* * *

They didn't have to catch up with Monsieur Gabrielle at all. Not twenty steps after they emerged from the restroom he flagged them down, "Madame Villanova, you simply must join us! We have so many questions for you." 

"You were right," Orpheus remarks in an undertone. "And he brought friends." 

Eurydice’s smile tightens imperceptibly.

The assault that follows from Monsieur Gabrielle and his tipsy compatriots is a test of their cover story: "Where in the stars did you pick a debtor of such substance? I know it's rude to ask but--"

"-- Oh goodness, yes, do tell. There is so much risk involved in these auctions, they only ever show their best and downplay all the... _deviations_ and _deficiencies--_ "

"--Yours is simply... _remarkable_. Did you train him yourself or did he come with a background in financial management? You don't get many Outer Rim refugees with much in the way of education, and debtors? Usually out of the question--"

"--one with such a mild temperament-- you said he's capable enough with language for cryptography? Remarkable--"

Eurydice passes with flying colors. She _tells_ their cover story without a hint of recitation, ad-libbing to fill in the gaps. Even the worst of the Hyperion City elite looked like saints compared to these creeps. Hieron curls the claws of their free hand into their own hip to keep from doing something regrettable with them. They lock eyes with Gabrielle in a way that could have been misinterpreted as flirting instead of seething hatred, letting their awareness gnaw away at his mental veneer unrestrained.

Peter drifts below the probing. Refuses to acknowledge it. He focuses intently on calculating the approximate value of every diamond dripping from Mademoiselle Caron's chandelier-like earrings, the mild smile fixed on his face and nodding in the right places. His mind wanders to Hieron-- and they are themself rather than Eurydice, more and more, in their mannerisms the longer the conversation continues. Intent and sharp-eyed. He imagines he can see red inching into their irises despite their contacts. Thinks of the god-beast he dreamt of with their face and goosebumps break out across his skin. 

"-- has all his teeth then I might just have to make an offer." 

"Not if I beat you to it. What do you say, Madame Villanova? What would it take to convince you to part with your PA, hypothetically-speaking, of course?" 

For a single, vivid moment Peter can see himself laughing in Monsieur Gabrielle's face. A bitter and cutting sort of laugh that would illustrate just how out of his league he was. Instead, Peter chuckles and, without a single ounce of Orpheus in his tone but someone far more sinister, " _You couldn't afford me_." 

True to the tone-deafness of every wealthy fool on this rock, Gabrielle laughs, "Oh, I'm sure I could. What did you get him for, Eurydice?" Too familiar by half, "I think five million should net you at least 90% profit on his starting price, even accounting for inflation. He can’t have been that young when you got him and he certainly isn’t now. He’s depreciated in value."

Peter’s mouth falls open like he’s been slapped.

Gabrielle's offer catches Hieron off guard and they nearly snap their teeth at him. They wrap their hand around Orpheus’ arm, tugging him close to their side, digging their claws into him in their sudden flash of irritated possession. "I'm afraid he's not for sale..." It’s a calculated distraction, Eurydice's break; there comes a more subtle flash of temper inside Gabrielle that he hides it with a smile. _Nobody denies Victor Terzian._

Eurydice is smiling right back or snarling. "...but perhaps you can convince me by other means, Monsieur." 

They’ve used a similar line a thousand times, for all manner of deals and wagers, honed to deadly utility by meta-knowledge gleaned from the minds of everybody they ever flirted with. They release Orpheus' arm to extend a hand dripping with jewels to Gabrielle, who, just as inebriated as his cronies, plants a bristly kiss on the back of it. 

"I like your fire, Madame-- Orpheus, darling, go rent us a room on the Starlight Plaza level. Eurydice and I must discuss business."

“Right away, sir,” Peter says, off-balance at the turn. Hieron’s seen something, that much is clear, and he has to grope through the dark after them. “I’m sure they’ll have a bungalow or two left with a view of the neubla.” He’s only somewhat more sure of his feet than Monsieur Gabrielle as he exits into the wilds of the exhibition hall. Hieron’s laughter follows him across the floor. 

* * *

The exposition hall is no less full of milling bodies than the welcome reception and the conversation a dull roar under the vaulted ceilings. They had everything: debt auction programs, medical equipment upgrades, debtor placement agencies, sponsorship solicitation events, nutritional supplements for radiation treatments, accessories and accoutrements to accentuate or conceal debtors’ tags as appropriate for certain events. Those responsible for shilling the multivariate wares circulated in the crowd, all hoping to snare buyers. Dodging them to get to the concierge was as fraught as navigating a minefield.

“Excuse me, do you have a moment sir?” 

Orpheus kept walking, carefully watching the middle distance and not making eye contact. 

The small woman in her crisp white uniform falls into step with him anyway. “Excuse me, I’m sure you’ve very busy, but I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about your experience with the Board of Fresh Starts.” 

He’s startled to find someone speaking directly to him— and she seizes the opportunity to move in front of him, effectively trapping him via social convention. Her smile is solid and unmoving, something she’d likely had plastered on her face since the early morning. She holds a tablet not dissimilar to his own, bracing it carefully on her forearm between her elbow and clunky debtor’s tag as she spoke. “Hi, I’m Mira, I’m with Invictus Innovations Incorporated! Do you have a few minutes?” 

She turns her tablet towards him, holding out her stylus expectantly. Social conditioning dictated that he should take it. A perfect in to get him to stay put and listen to her diatribe.

Orpheus tries to sidestep her. She follows him, that smile still fixed in place as she delivers her script with flawless diction, “We’re collecting survey responses from unaccompanied debtors about the quality of their experiences in our competitors’ filters. We understand that debtors sometimes face unique challenges associated with visible external filters, particularly in regards to the pre-judging of others and their own sponsors.” 

“ _Ah_ , I see. Right. I am perfectly satisfied with my current arrangement, thank you so very much,” he replies through his teeth.

“Of course! And many are; I see that you have a very modern filter design, very chic. It must be minimally-intrusive. But it’s still noticeable to passersby, unlike our new _splenetic filters_ , which are entirely internal. After twenty years in development with human trials--” 

“ _Thank you_ , but my mistress is also perfectly satisfied with her investment in my long-term medical care.”

“ _She’s_ satisfied, naturally, but are you? It isn’t easy going around with your status attached to your arm for everyone to see. Invictus Innovations prizes debtors’ independence above the restraints of—”

Impatient at last Orpheus shoulders past her. “I really must be going; my mistress is waiting.” He pockets her stylus and her wallet for good measure. 

* * *

Eurydice and Terzian circulated arm-in-arm in Orpheus’ absence. Sure-footed heiress leading the lush through the reception’s secluded corners, her nails fondly-tight in him. By the time the two wound their way to the guest levels to pick up the room key from Orpheus, Terzian's bright red face and neck bore kiss marks the color of Eurydice's smudged lipstick.

The former-Gabrielle must be Terzian, _must be_. It’s only that Hieron has picked up on some subtle cue he missed or held some exchange Peter wasn’t privy to despite being glued to their side. Otherwise, he’ll be forced to assume that this frivolity is nothing but frivolity and Hieron, despite his reservations, doesn’t seem the type. Not with the sword of Buddy’s approval hung over their head. 

"You'rrrrre one lucky debtor," Terzian slurs at Orpheus. "With a mistress sssso generous." 

Orpheus offers a placating nod. “Almost as lucky as you, sir.”

"Oh, stop flirting with my PA and get inside," Eurydice barks, herding the drunken over-glorified IT guy into the room before turning to Orpheus. "Keep your comms close my dear, in case we need anything, otherwise consider this a night off. You don't want to witness this."

That was the last any onlooker saw of Eurydice Villanova until morning; shepherding the Board of Fresh Starts' data specialist into a honeymoon suite under the stars.

* * *

While Eurydice works on lucky Monsieur Terzian nee Gabrielle, no doubt _focused_ in their singular pursuit of the passwords rattling around his head, Peter takes himself to bed. Spacelag is getting harder and harder on him as the years creep by. He spends extra time on his skincare routine. Tunes the radio to a Martian jazz station and carefully does not let himself think about anything at all.

Wrapped in the familiar unfamiliarity of hotel sheets he sleeps. He dreams. 

It isn’t the same nightmare but the bones of it are the same: the thief is a fool who swallowed a star, or a heart, and it shines in his belly. He is fleeing the Seer in Their own forest. A wild hunt cut short when he falls into Juno. Fights him. Bites him. Scores his teeth so deep into muscle he hits bone. 

Only the dreamscape shifts inside his mouth from pale forest to the temple sanctuary where so many fires burn. 

There’s a hand in his hair. Long fingers with wrong joints gripping and tearing him away from Juno. 

_Hieron—_ it’s the Hieron aboard the Carte Blanche with soft pink hair but their eyes are unbroken red and more eyes push up at their temples, half a dozen of them-- scolds him, “He isn’t for you to chew on,” in the layered voice of a god. 

From their mouth it’s nearly a gentle sound. 

Blood drips from his lips. There is a sliver of meat, a sliver of _Juno_ , caught in his teeth. He swallows and immediately feels sick. 

“I know you’re scared.” 

He should be listening when they speak, he’s been trying to listen more when other people speak, but he can see their teeth. They’re like polished obsidian. Impossible rows of them running impossibly deep. They are not human teeth. But then the Seer is not human. 

The god-beast of his nightmares splits Hieron’s skin at the seams with gold. They take his face in their warm, warm hands and kiss Juno’s blood from his mouth. Suck at the stubborn cracks of his lips with a gentleness that breaks them open. _They must be thorough,_ he Understands this as if it were spoken to him, _because Juno isn’t for him. Juno’s blood isn’t for him. He cannot be allowed to keep it anywhere inside of him._

This last comes with the inexorable slide of Their tongue over his teeth and the roof of his mouth. Distending the insides of his cheeks. He tries to pull away to breathe but They won’t let him. They bend him back and the ceiling above him is horrible and endless and he squeezes his eyes closed. Their face splits. He can feel the impressions of Their teeth around his jaw, held tentative and tickling. Their tongue unfolds into his mouth and he has to swallow around it or choke. 

He swallows. And swallows. Gags around them and breathes thin air through his nose. Their thumbs stroke his cheekbones with loving tenderness as Their tongue rasps at the inside of his throat and deeper. He struggles around them, eyes watering, jaw beginning already to ache. The absurd thought, _I’m out of practice_ , would have made him laugh if he could breathe.

He’s afraid, suddenly, that They will force Themself deep enough into him to dislodge the heartstone and it will hurt him again. 

But They withdraw. 

They withdraw and he fists his hands in the silken membrane of their robe, coughing, gasping. He hasn’t decided yet whether to push them away or to just hold Them there for a breath so he can get his wits about him— when Their tongue surges forward again. For all its foreign texture catches tender places, it is giving where it fills him. A relentless thrust of heat.

It’s not altogether unlike being fucked. 

He shudders and the floor tilts under him. He could think of worse punishments for what he’s done than this— 

The phone on the nightstand rings shrill in the dark. Reflexively, Peter answers it before his eyes open to stop its screaming. “ _Yes_?” His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his fingertips.

Hieron’s voice answers him, “Oh, good, you answered; I have a key for you. I… also need help getting our friend into bed. He might have overindulged and he’s rather … heavy.” 

Peter sighs heavily through his nose. The luminous display of his false tag tells him it’s roughly two o’clock in the morning, local time. “I’ll be right there,” he says and hangs up on them. Stares at the dim starlit ceiling for a moment. He needs to get off. Kicks away the too-light hotel blankets -- then stops himself. He _needs_ to get out of bed. _Wanting_ is a different thing than _needing_ when there’s important work to be done and, assuming Hieron has managed the impossible, keeping Gabrielle/Terzian incapacitated is much more important.

Aggravated, he rolls over to shove his face into the pillow that smells of carefully calculated nothingness. He groans. Bites the pillow and grinds its undeserving fabric and hypoallergenic filling until it _squeaks_ between his molars. 

Then, as if nothing has bothered him at all, Peter gets up and takes the quickest cold shower of his life. 

He meets Eurydice on her floor (directly above his and near the stairs for quick getaways, an aesthetic faux pas for which Orpheus had been relentlessly apologetic) inside half an hour with his hair still hanging damp and his shirt cuffs unbuttoned. The surreality of the hotel’s unchanging liminality and the deep silence of late evening have him especially impatient. His head feels heavy. The weight of an unfinished REM cycle is harder to carry than it’s ever been. 

“Did you just let him drink himself stupid or did you get anything useful from him?” 

Then, as he’s rolling up his shirtsleeves, he sees Mr. Terzian. Hieron hadn’t even done him the courtesy of getting him into bed before wringing him out and leaving him in a heap on the stain-resistant carpet. The skin on him that’s visible is mottled with bruises punctuated by neat punctures in sets of four here and there that are already scabbing over.

Peter makes an impressed sound and looks to Hieron. They’ve perched on the arm of the sofa, long legs crossed as they pick blood from under the nails of their left hand with their right thumbnail. They don’t catch him looking at them for several seconds but then, as if they’re considering being chagrined, they tell him, “I got the Key but… I didn’t stop there.” 

“This seems like a sufficient amount of force to leverage in obtaining sensitive information if you ask me,” he replies, careful, sidestepping the sofa to hitch his arms beneath Terzian’s shoulders. “Get his feet? I’m sure between the two of us we can manage him.” 

If Mr. Terzian manages to knock his head against a few pieces of furniture and lose all his personal valuables en route to the bedroom it’s no less than what he deserves for over-indulging. They leave him tied to the bedposts with curtain sashes.

“I think I’ll shower,” Hieron says, closing the bedroom door firmly, apropos of nothing. “If we’re stuck here until morning there’s no reason not to take advantage. He’s not going anywhere.” 

If there might be an invitation there Peter politely ignores it in favor of rummaging in the minibar. “Oh, yes, do. All the advertising for this place is focused on either the views or the baths or both at once.” Then he makes a victorious noise and holds up a couple of pint-sized bottles of vodka and steals a lime from the complimentary fruit basket. “I’m thinking gimlets to round out the evening, Madame, what do you think?” 

Hieron didn't have to be asked twice. “That might be the best idea you’ve ever had.” 

They saunter to Peter and watch him throw together appetizing cocktails with the contents of the minibar. He even tears open the coffee maker’s sugar packets to properly sugar the rims of the plastic champagne glasses he’s making do with. It should never be said that he’s not resourceful. He passes Hieron their drink with a faint flourish-- they accept with a grin and tap their plastic against his.

"Cheers, _Orpheus_ darling, to the end of all this!" Giddy, they turn a tight circle on their bare feet, arms extended in a gesture to encompass the hotel full of wolves. "We got ours and they'll all get theirs real soon."

They are radiant in the starlight. 

“Cheers, Madame.”

Looking at them, at the dark fall of their hair, a memory unspools between one heartbeat and the next: a fine thread of swans and sparrows and Plutonian winter. Without taking his eyes from them he tastes the cheap sugar on the rim of his glass and drinks. It's hard to swallow but he manages it. He swallows and shoves the memory in all its clarity back into its place. 

**Author's Note:**

> Blame any and all terrible puns on iimpavid. Hieron, when not a horrifying godbeast, belongs to voidteatime.
> 
> Relevant details for anyone who clicked through for warnings: Peter gets to LARP as a debtor for a job which comes with slave-like status and casual social objectification. There is also 1 (one) monsterfucky dream but no one gets eaten and everyone is generally into it so you might want to give this one a shot. 
> 
> Please remember: your comments are the fuel that keeps us going.


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